


Gift of the Broke, Lovesick Idiots

by fanatic_by_definition



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Christmas, Gift of the Magi, M/M, yes i know it's a cliche trope but i love it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 10:45:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2848094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanatic_by_definition/pseuds/fanatic_by_definition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days, let it be said that of all who give gifts, these two were the wisest."</p><p>~ O. Henry, "Gift of the Magi"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gift of the Broke, Lovesick Idiots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DamionAerynStarr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DamionAerynStarr/gifts).



> Just a little Christmas fic for you guys--especially for my 'Trick, damionaerynstarr. Hope you like!

_“Have yourself a merry little Christmas_

_Let your heart be light_

_From now on our troubles_

_Will be out of sight_

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas_

_Make the yuletide gay_

_From now on our troubles_

_Will be miles away…”_

Patrick’s breaths puff out of his mouth in white plumes as he sings on the corner of State and Jackson, huddled underneath the El tracks. Tiny tremors wrack his body every minute or so as walls of frigid wind buffet down the narrow street and hit him where he sits, but he continues to strum the strings of his precious red Gretsch guitar with numb fingers that somehow still manage to pick out the right chords. He pauses his playing for a brief moment during a particularly brutal gust to pull his knit black beanie further down over his ears. Winter in Chicago isn’t pleasant even when you’ve got adequate clothing for the cold—surviving with nothing more than a pair of fingerless fabric gloves, a worn, uninsulated jacket, and a threadbare hat that’s at least five years old means you’re gonna have an especially difficult time.

_“Here we are, as in olden days_

_Happy golden days_

_Of yore_

_Faithful friends who are dear to us_

_Gather near to us_

_Once more…”_

The cold air is doing nothing to make Patrick’s voice sound any better—it’s hard to venture into the higher end of his register when his vocal chords are so constricted—but he’s making do. He’d forgotten his scarf at the apartment this morning, and having it would help, but people seem to like the way he sounds, even if he doesn’t himself. No one’s told him to shut up, at least. He notices the warbles, the rasps, the occasional pitchiness, but bystanders don’t seem to. Truthfully, they don’t often notice him at all.

As if to prove this point, a young, clearly-wealthy woman struts by Patrick in a thick, luxurious fur coat, her arm hooked in her husband’s. He actually spares a glance at Patrick, but the way he does it is what aggravates the singer—it’s as if he’s looking down at an animal, an inferior creature that disgusts him. His crystal-clear green eyes lock with Patrick’s cloudy green-blue ones for a brief moment, pity flashing in them.

Then the contact is broken, and they continue on in silence; less than five seconds pass before Patrick’s certain they’ve forgotten he even exists.

This phenomenon isn’t uncommon, unfortunately, especially today. He hasn’t gotten hardly any attention, despite the seasonal busyness of this particular downtown intersection. Located right by the Red Line subway station and practically in the middle of State Street, he’s being passed by hundreds of people in thick coats and business suits, most of them carrying stuffed shopping bags from Macy’s, Nordstrom, Old Navy, and the like. Despite this, they don’t appear to have the time—or, evidently, the compassion—to give a high school drop-out in his mid-twenties a few bucks so he can pay this month’s rent.

Or maybe last month’s.

…Or the month before that.

Patrick shakes these dismal thoughts out of his head and continues the traditional carol.

_“Through the years, we all will be together_

_If the fates allow…”_

Finally, a kind-faced older woman in a poofy parka and fuzzy white earmuffs (which Patrick envies) walks by, pauses at the sound of his voice, and digs a five-dollar bill out of her purse. She drops it in his box, weighing it down with a couple quarters, and smiles at him. He smiles back gratefully as he finishes the song, now singing directly at her:

_“Hang a shining star above_

_The highest bough…_

_And have yourself_

_A merry little Christmas now.”_

“Such a sweet young man,” the lady says, applauding the now-blushing singer quietly with her mitten-clad hands. There’s pity in her eyes as she looks him over, though, taking in his world-weary appearance. “So handsome and talented, too—it’s a shame you’re out here on the streets so close to Christmas.”

Patrick looks down at his tattered shoes bashfully and rests his guitar on his crossed legs. He never really interacts with his “patrons”—with anyone on the streets, for that matter—so this is a change from the norm.

“Well, I-I’ve actually got an apartment down on Van Buren,” he admits, and cups his hands in front of his mouth to breathe into them and coax the frozen tissue back to life. His elbow scrapes against the strings of his guitar, causing a screech to emanate from the small amp to his left, so he reaches over to switch it off. “Just tryin’ to, y’know, get by with rent and stuff.” _And presents—well, one ridiculously expensive present._

“I see. Do you live there all on your own?”

“No.” A warmth that no coat could ever provide floods through Patrick’s body, and his shy grin broadens slightly at the thought of Pete. “I have a…roommate.” _Hope he never finds out I called him that._ “But, uh…our income isn’t exactly plentiful.” He gestures vaguely to his guitar and the nearly-empty shoebox. “’S why I do this. Doesn’t pay much, but…” His voice trails off with a sort of hopeless shrug. He hates discussing his “situation” with people—feels like it’s a burden strangers don’t deserve to carry—but something about this woman is coaxing it out of him.

Now, she has one hand over her mouth and a look of genuine sorrow—one of the few Patrick has ever seen from passers-by—in her gray eyes. “Oh, honey.” Without another moment’s hesitation, she pulls off a mitten and fishes her wallet out of her leather purse again. Seconds later, she produces two fifty dollar bills. “Here. Take this,” she insists, holding them out to him.

Patrick can feel his eyes widen comically behind his glasses as he stares at the offering. He hasn’t _ever_ been given this much money all at once by _anyone_ —his voice is good, yeah, but not one-hundred-fuckin’-dollars-at-once good. His throat dries up like a desert as he gawks at the money, then at the face of this angel who’s giving it to him. “I…I-I don’t know what to say,” he finally manages to choke out.

“You don’t have to say a word.” The woman leans down, takes one of Patrick’s cold hands in hers, and presses the bills into his palm. “I can tell you need this more than I do.”

The singer can only stare down at the money in utter shock. “I…” He closes his fingers around the most generous donation he’s ever received and looks up at the woman, numb from more than the cold. “Th-Thank you. So much.”

“Use it to buy yourself a warmer coat, sweetheart,” she replies earnestly. “Or to pay that pesky rent.”

“I-I will,” Patrick says, though he already knows exactly what these new funds are going towards. “I…Thank you, ma’am.”

“Of course.” She gives his hand one last squeeze. “Merry Christmas.” And then, as though this whole exchange had never occurred, she smiles, waves, and walks away, disappearing into the massive week-before-Christmas crowds on State Street.

Once he can no longer see her coat in the flood of moving bodies, Patrick looks down at the hundred dollars again, still in utter disbelief. _This is a whole_ third _of Pete’s present!_ he thinks excitedly. Tears threaten in his eyes all of a sudden, and he hastily swipes one shaking hand behind his glasses. He had begun to lose all hope of ever being able to afford the gift he so desperately wants to buy for his boyfriend, but this, combined with the last three weeks’ earnings and some scrounging from his scant Emergency Fund, could possibly mean he has enough.

Pete and Patrick lead simple lives, thanks to capitalism (the sonuvabitch). Their apartment is small, scarcely furnished, and right next to the loud rattle-and-clang of the old iron El tracks above Van Buren Street. The dismal location had been the only reason Pete and Patrick had been able to afford it—the closer a room is to the train, the louder it is, therefore the lower its price. They’ve gotten used to the noise, though, and frankly, they’re just glad to be together. It’s their first Christmas living together, though not their first as a couple, and they both want to make it special. But with Pete working two jobs to pay back loans for a school he’s no longer attending and Patrick singing in shady bars or on street corners for tips, it’s been looking like rented classic Christmas movies and a bottle of cheap wine were about as special as they were gonna get.

Patrick is determined to get Pete this present, though; it’s something he’s always wanted and needed: a record player. Pete only has one record, but it isn’t ordinary—it’s a copy of Metallica’s 1986 _Master of Puppets_ album, autographed by the whole band, including the late-great Cliff fucking Burton. It’s Pete’s prized possession, the most valuable thing he owns, discovered at a garage sale in Rogers Park years ago.

The trouble is, he’s never played it.

Even though it isn’t that difficult to find a relatively cheap turntable, Pete has always insisted that they have far more important things—like food and rent—to spend their money on. So the record sits dejectedly in a drawer in Pete’s nightstand, glorious but useless, something Pete claims he’s perfectly fine with. “It’s pretty to look at, anyway,” he’ll say with his Cheshire cat smile, trying to hide the sad acceptance in his eyes.

Patrick knows how badly Pete wants to hear the record played. He’s caught the older man on their bed several times with the unsheathed vinyl in his lap, running his fingers reverently over the grooves as if he could hear the music simply by caressing the physical notes. Sure, he’s heard all the songs before, but there’s something special about hearing them from an authentic, vintage LP that just adds to the magic. Patrick’s an even bigger music geek than Pete, so he can definitely appreciate that.

A record that special deserves a special turntable, and Patrick’s located the perfect one at a small shop in the Loop. He can’t remember the name of it, but it’s incredible: it has an adjustable, automatic tonearm, a heavy aluminum base that guarantees no skipping and better sound quality, three speed settings, _and_ a diamond needle. It’s everything Pete could ever want for that precious album, and more.

There’s only one problem, and that’s the price: $350. That’s two months’ rent right there, _without_ Chicago’s ludicrous ten-percent sales tax added on.

But with this last hundred dollars, Patrick just might be able to afford it. Christmas could happen for the two of them after all, thanks to the kindness of one nameless woman who’d flitted in and out of Patrick’s life so quickly, he can’t even recall exactly what she looked like.

 _Pete’s gonna be so happy,_ Patrick thinks, and he smiles broadly to himself, imagining the look on Pete’s face when he unwraps the box to reveal the extravagant gift. It’ll probably be the most expensive thing in their apartment, yes, but it’ll be worth it—worth every popped blister on Patrick’s fingers, every night he’s come home voiceless, every bitter cold day he’s ever spent playing his Gretsch on a bustling street corner and not earned more than ten bucks.

Suddenly eager to head home and count how much money he actually has now, Patrick quickly reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the small manila envelope that serves as his wallet. He carefully folds the two fifties and tucks them into the envelope, alongside almost another hundred dollars he’s scrounged up in the past couple of months, and adds the fiver and the few coins he’d also earned today. The sound of that cash rustling and jingling in the envelope makes Patrick want to sing at the top of his lungs for ten days straight, but he restrains himself, tucking it back into his front jacket pocket and turning around to grab the soft flannel blanket he uses to protect his guitar.

Not having a case is a hassle most of the time, but Patrick makes do. He carefully fits the blanket around his most treasured possession, wraps it around a few times, then ties it off where the neck of the guitar meets the body. It’s not especially pretty, but the guitar hasn’t gotten scratched yet, so it’s good enough. The thing’s from the sixties—it needs _some_ cushion. Slinging the protruding strap over one shoulder and grabbing his cable and amp, Patrick pushes himself up off the cold, damp concrete, wincing as his knees, hips, and back all protest painfully at once. Judging from the streetlights that are already switched on and the way the sky is darkening by the minute, he estimates that it’s around five o’clock. Plenty of time to get home and surprise Pete with dinner.

* * *

Busy sidewalks mean bumping into the occasional stranger is an unavoidable thing. Patrick knows this full well—he’s lived in this city his whole life. So when a scruffy-looking teenager wearing an oversized leather jacket nearly knocks Patrick over as he’s rounding a corner, he just mumbles his usual apology and smiles. The kid nods mutely at him, pulls his hands into his sleeves, and continues on his way, the lingering stench of cigarette smoke wafting behind him.

Patrick reaches the rickety door of the apartment building just as it’s beginning to snow. He edges through the narrow doorway carefully, mindful of the instrument on his back, and heads up the flight of wooden stairs to the second floor more quickly than usual. His head and heart are buzzing with excitement; sure, he might have to sing again tomorrow to get the full amount he needs to pay for the turntable, but that’s fine—Christmas isn’t for another two days. He can make another twenty or thirty bucks in that time if he really, really tries.

The key shakes in his hand as Patrick turns it in the lock. As soon as he’s in the apartment, he toes off his shoes and heads to the bedroom. Carefully, he sets his guitar and amp down against the nightstand on his side of the bed before eagerly reaching into his pocket for the envelope.

His fingers curl around empty air.

“What? No.” Patrick digs in the pocket with both hands, searching for holes or snags. “No, nononono, please.” He shucks the jacket off and throws it onto the bed, searching every pocket and flap of fabric he can fit more than two fingers into. _It can’t be gone. It just can’t be._ He checks his jeans, front and back, and shakes out the blanket covering his guitar. _Impossible. Where the fuck—?_

_That kid._

_He must’ve…_

Facts click in Patrick’s head, and he comes to a devastating realization. “Dammit! _Fuck!_ No!” He hurls the blanket against the nearest wall and collapses on the floor, knees against his chest and hands slipping under his hat to yank on his mousey hair. _Fucking pickpocketing ASSHOLE!_ he thinks as he tries to keep the tears brimming in his eyes from spilling over.

That’s it. He’s done. Without that money, he can’t even afford the fucking _needle_ on that record player. He knows his Emergency Fund has about forty dollars in it, but at the pathetic rate both he and Pete have been getting paid recently, that’ll have to go towards groceries at the end of the week. That punk-ass teenager had literally stolen _Christmas_ _itself_ out of Patrick’s pocket, and there’s no way Patrick can earn back even a third of it in just two days.

Hopeless and guilt-ridden, Patrick weeps into his hands for a good fifteen minutes on his bedroom floor. All the sheer joy he’d felt at the mere prospect of finally giving Pete a gift he actually deserves is gone, and he’s perfectly ready to just sit here in this dimly-lit room and wallow in his depressive self-loathing for the rest of eternity. Christmas has just been fucking cancelled, after all, so what reason does he have to keep functioning?

Of course, the answer to that one is simple: Pete. His reason is Pete, as it has been for a long time. This isn’t the first time Patrick has thought of him—his kind hazel eyes, his wide toothy grin, his warm embrace—to talk himself down from a cliff or up out of a pit, and it most certainly won’t be the last. He’s gotta pull himself together for Pete—if the older man comes home to find a pathetic sniveling mess of a man on his bedroom floor, he’ll ask questions that Patrick really doesn’t feel up to answering.

A tear-blurred glance at the small wall-mounted clock in the room answers that question for Patrick—it’s quarter to six. Pete should be home in about half an hour—his shifts end earlier this week because of the holiday—and he’ll be hungry. There’s still time to whip up something simple.

Patrick sniffs one last time and hauls himself off the floor, drying his nose and eyes with one gloved hand. Straightening his glasses, he makes his way through the living room to the small kitchen. _Wonder if someone stole our fucking pasta, too,_ he thinks bitterly and tugs his gloves off before digging in the oven for a clean pot.

Thoughts of the record player and the happiness that has (once again) been robbed from Pete’s life invade Patrick’s mind again, beating his psyche with unforgiving invisible fists as he waits for the water to boil; a few more tears escape and track down his flushed cheeks, but he doesn’t bother to wipe them away. He can let himself be miserable for a little longer—he deserves it, after all, since he was stupid enough to put _all his money_ in an easily accessible pocket and walk through a _crowd_ in fucking downtown Chicago. The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes how this is actually all _his_ fault, not that kid’s. Pete would argue otherwise, but that’s just Pete—if he found Patrick standing over a dead body with blood soaking his hands, he’d still advocate for the younger man’s innocence.

A familiar cloud of despair has settled firmly just over Patrick’s head by the time he hears the door open, and he scrambles to brush away the tear tracks on his face as the sound of Pete kicking off his shoes reaches him. “Made you some spaghetti,” he calls, forcing his voice to remain steady, and keeps stirring the pot as the pasta finishes cooking. “Not much left in the box, but it’s…something, at least.”

Strangely, there’s no reply—at least, not a verbal one. Footsteps approach Patrick from the living room, and before he can turn around, there’s a pair of strong tattooed arms slipping around his round stomach and a firm, warm chest pressing against his back.

Pete presses a kiss to Patrick’s nape. “Smells delicious,” he finally says, but his nose is buried in Patrick’s hair. He inhales deeply, tickling the sensitive skin of the shorter man’s neck and causing goosebumps to arise there. A light, lingering kiss is his penance.

As much as Patrick loves this kind of attention, it’s not very characteristic of Pete to be so quiet when he comes home from bartending at Angels & Kings—usually there’s a spark of mirth in his eyes as he tells a new story of some drunk chick or another who ended up dancing topless on the bar, or of a fight that had broken out in the bathrooms that Joe or Andy had had to break up. It’s always something crazy at that place, and Patrick’s always the first one to hear about it. Pete’s never this…subdued after working there.

Pasta forgotten for the moment, Patrick sets the spoon down and turns off the burner. He spins in Pete’s arms so they’re nose-to-nose and loops his own arms around Pete’s neck in a familiar position. “Something happen?” he asks softly.

Pete just shakes his head and shrugs. His eyes are clouded. “’S just…y’know that bonus I was supposed to get today?”

“Yeah…” Patrick’s eyes widen in realization after a moment, and a spark of anger ignites in his chest, replacing his previous melancholy. “Urie didn’t refuse to pay you again, did he? You work your fucking _ass_ off at that place; you deserve at least _three_ times the pay of everyone else there! Fuck, if he thinks he’s gonna get away with this, he’s—”

Pete cuts him off with a quick, chaste kiss on the lips, which is the best proven “shut-Patrick-up” method he’s found so far. Well, apart from blowjobs, but. Anyway. “’Trick! Calm down, babe. He’s gonna pay me, it’s just gonna be another couple days.” He smiles a little sadly. “I was just gonna, uh…get some groceries with it later, and I was bummed that I couldn’t. I know we’re out of that microwave veggie lasagna you like.”

Patrick sighs deeply, relieved but irritated at the same time. “Don’t worry about that,” he insists more calmly, then lightly punches Pete’s shoulder. “Had me scared for a minute.”

“Couldn’t tell,” Pete says, eyes finally crinkling at the corners as he smiles a genuine smile at his boyfriend. On impulse, Patrick stretches up on his tiptoes to kiss those precious wrinkles.

They eat two small helpings of spaghetti, topped with the last of their marinara sauce, and lose themselves in conversation for hours, as usual. Somehow Patrick manages to skirt around the topic of Christmas presents, but he barely manages to fib his way through the usual “How was ‘business’ today?” question. Bad jokes, movie quotes, song references, and impersonations follow the preliminary small talk, and soon the two of them are sprawled haphazardly on the living room couch, laughing so loudly they’re bound to get complaints in the morning. It’s a regular occurrence for them, true, but after the day Patrick’s had, it’s the most welcome sensation he can imagine.

Besides one other thing.

When he’s finally caught his breath, Patrick turns his head to gaze at the perfection that is Pete Wentz on the couch beside him: his face is stretched in a broad grin, his eyes are alight, and his cheeks are flushed a delightful shade of pink. He’s beautiful, the most beautiful thing Patrick’s ever seen, and Patrick is once again in disbelief that _he,_ a short, chubby, balding dweeb managed to get someone like Pete to love him. He can’t resist rolling over and bracing himself on his arms above Pete’s prone form; his head dips down for a kiss, and at some point, he feels the mirth in both their systems turn into lust. Within minutes, they’re push-pulling each other down the narrow hallway leading to their bedroom.

It’s after midnight by the time they’re both utterly spent and exhausted, tangled naked and sweaty together beneath damp sheets with the light of a waxing December moon slanting through a nearby window. Patrick, chest still heaving, looks over at Pete and is immediately reminded of why he would sing on street corners in the cold for weeks on end only to spend the money on something that wasn’t even for himself. This man is the love of his life, and he’d do anything and everything to make him smile.

“I love you,” he whispers between breaths. It’s a post-coital cliché, but he means it.

Pete’s eyes flicker open. “Love you, too,” he replies, grinning his Cheshire grin, and kisses Patrick’s arm where it’s slung beside his head. Then something changes in his expression and suddenly he looks alarmingly vulnerable; the sad fog from earlier returns to his eyes. “Sing me to sleep, ‘Trick? Love your voice.”

Patrick blinks confusedly, surprised at the familiar but untimely request, and shifts so the other man can lie more comfortably against his bare side. Pete is the only person Patrick will let touch the pale skin of his torso, and Pete wisely treats that like the sacred privilege it is. He curls against Patrick like a cat, looping one arm over the younger man’s chest and tangling their legs together beneath the covers.

“This still about the groceries?” Patrick mumbles, reaching up to card his fingers through Pete’s thick black hair.

“Maybe,” Pete replies quietly, voice muffled by the skin of Patrick’s shoulder.

Patrick grunts in acceptance, not pressing the issue any further. Pete has a tendency to fixate his mind on small things—like buying microwaveable lasagna for Patrick—and he gets a little moody when he can’t accomplish them. It’s behavior Patrick’s used to by now, and it doesn’t make him love Pete any less. He ghosts a kiss across Pete’s forehead and asks, “Any requests?”

“Your song,” Pete says. It’s his default answer. “The one you wrote back in October; y’know, the one about streetlights.”

A low chuckle rumbles out of Patrick’s chest. Even as often as he’s heard the song, the correct name of it still manages to escape Pete’s memory. “You mean ‘Spotlight’?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“M’kay.” After a few seconds of humming to warm up his voice, Patrick starts to croon the words of his own song to the man slowly falling asleep against his side.

When he gets to the pre-chorus, he holds Pete a little tighter.

_“’Cuz they might_

_Try to tell you how you can live your life_

_But don’t, don’t forget it’s your right_

_To do whatever you like, you like_

_‘Cuz you could be your own spotlight…”_

They’re words of strength, of empowerment, and all along Patrick has meant them for Pete and Pete alone.

As he sings, Patrick imagines what the words would sound like accompanied by some percussion, some backing vocals, maybe even a synth. He pictures it as an inspiring pop/R&B ballad, with just a few hints of Bowie and the great Prince sprinkled throughout. What he’d give to spend just a few hours in a recording studio with an iPad of his own and GarageBand at his disposal. His dream of being a professional musician has never really died, if he’s honest with himself.

But then he gazes down at Pete, and realizes his greatest song—his Billboard #1 Hit—is the song he and Pete have composed together for the past five years, ever since they met at that Blink concert in Tinley. Its title would probably be something along the lines of “Two Lovesick Idiots Perpetually in Danger of Eviction” or “A College Dropout and a Street Performer Somehow Make It Work,” but Patrick wouldn’t have it any other way. Even with all the ups and downs and scrounging for cash, he wouldn’t change a thing.

_“No, nostalgia, I don’t need you anymore…”_

Pete falls asleep just a few minutes before Patrick finishes the final chorus, and Patrick follows him soon after. 

* * *

“Late shift today,” Pete says before he kisses Patrick goodbye at noon the next day and slings the backpack containing his lunch and uniform over his shoulder with a grunt. “Won’t be home before ten, probably.”

Patrick tries not to pout like a petulant child—he hates the days when Pete works at Giordano’s. Unlike A&K, the pizza place has much longer hours and usually harder work. Without alcohol. “But it’s Christmas Eve—surely they’ll close early?”

Pete shrugs uncertainly. “I dunno, man. We’ll see. I’ll do my best to get off at a decent time, okay?”

“Yeah.” Patrick wraps Pete in a tight hug. “I’ll miss you. As always.”

“Me too, as always.” One last peck on the lips, and the older man slips out the door with a fast but sincere, “See ya soon. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Patrick replies with a wave and a smile and closes the door behind him. Once he hears Pete’s footsteps on the staircase, he turns back to the now-empty apartment and looks around for a few seconds before trotting over to the TV. What better way to spend the day alone than by staring at a screen for ten hours? They don’t have cable and their television isn’t that high-quality, but they’ve got plenty of movies they’d managed to score from Blockbuster before it closed and the TV plays them just fine. Patrick picks one of his favorites— _School of Rock_ —out of the stack and pops it into the cheap DVD player. Once he’s got a bag of pretzels and a water bottle from the kitchen, he drapes a thin quilt over his legs and presses “PLAY.”

He’s seen this movie so many times he can practically recite it word-for-word, so he recognizes the scene when it comes up: Dewey Finn, in his bathrobe, trying to sell one of his guitars over the phone. Patrick recognizes the guitar, knows it well: it’s a ’68 Gibson SG. He can think of several guitarists who’d played one back in the day—Zappa, Garcia, Hendrix—and finds the fact that Dewey can’t sell his in the movie highly unrealistic. A guitar with that history, in that condition, is worth some major coin in the real world.

Patrick’s hand freezes halfway to his mouth, the pretzel he’d been about to consume falling into his lap.

He can still get enough money to afford Pete’s record player.

Pausing the movie with a shaking hand, Patrick rockets off the couch and practically sprints to the bedroom, where his beloved red 1965 Gretsch Corvette is resting against his nightstand. It’s still wrapped in the flannel blanket, which Patrick nearly rips in his haste to get it off. He examines the instrument he knows better than himself more closely than he ever has before, and finds that, just like Dewey’s Gibson, this vintage guitar is practically in mint condition: there’s a few tiny scratches on the back of the body and a miniscule nick at the tip of one of the wings, but besides that, it could’ve been manufactured yesterday. He feels a slight stirring of pride in his chest, knowing that he’s the one who’s kept this instrument—handed down to him by his dead father, who’d gotten it from a store when it was first released—so tidy, even without a case. His fingers skim lightly over the perfectly tuned strings, suddenly overcome with a wave of affection for this hunk of wood and metal.

Could he really give up his Gretsch? After all it’s gotten him through, all the history it has in his family? How much money is it even worth, with the scratches and the fact that hardly anyone of any notoriety played these guitars when they were new? It’s hard to say. It would be the biggest gamble he’s ever banked on, of course, but if it paid off, Pete would be happy.

That’s the only thing that matters to Patrick, in the end—Pete’s happiness. If selling, or possibly trading, his Gretsch for a high-end record player gives Pete even a minute’s worth of sheer joy, well…it’s worth it. Patrick would give up his voice for Pete—surely an old guitar is less of a sacrifice than that.

It’s the perfect solution. Painful, yes, but perfect.

Patrick smiles shakily down at his once-most-prized possession and swallows past a lump in his throat. “Well, buddy,” he whispers, caressing the cherry-stained wood with reverent fingertips, “looks like I finally figured out why Dad left you with me. You’ve been the best friend I could’ve asked for, and I…thank you. But…this is what I have to do.”

 _It’ll end up with someone who really loves it,_ Patrick thinks as he lovingly swathes the Gretsch in the musty old blanket for the final time. _It’ll find a good home. Beauties like these always do._

With the strap slung over his shoulder and ten of his forty emergency dollars in his pocket for a CTA ticket, Patrick stands up and turns to leave the bedroom. He casts a lingering glance over at the drawer of Pete’s nightstand that houses the _Master of Puppets_ record, and pictures the expression on Pete’s face when he hears those favorite songs of his projected from an authentic vintage vinyl for the first time. It’ll all be worth it then.

Sniffing a little and cursing himself for crying three times in less than twenty-four hours, Patrick grabs his coat and scarf from the hook by the door and heads out to the nearest music shop he knows.

* * *

A brass bell rings above the door as Patrick enters the small, homely store, and the young sales clerk on duty behind the nearby desk turns her head to look at him. She smiles warmly as he brushes snow off of his hat, her blue eyes sparking almost as brightly as her blue hair. “Hey! Welcome to Jammer’s. Looking for anything in particular today?”

“No, I, uh…” Patrick is a little in awe at this place. The walls are simply covered in guitars from just about every company and decade, and they’re all beautiful. There’s dozens of Gibsons and Fenders and Les Pauls, and even a few Gretsches, their ages ranging from pre-fifties to last month. It’s a little overwhelming, and Patrick suddenly gulps. With these incredible beauties stocking their store, are they really gonna want to buy this kinda-beat-up old ‘Vette from him? Did he spend ten whole bucks and nearly an hour on a Brown Line train for nothing?

Patrick realizes he hasn’t finished his sentence, so he continues haltingly, “I-I was just looking to, uh…sell my guitar.”

Blue Hair gets up to walk over to a larger counter against the far wall.  “Came to the right place then, friend—we buy ‘em all here. Can I see it?”

Another gulp, and Patrick finds himself staring at his shoes as he slowly walks over to the counter. Now that he’s here, about to part with his most cherished belonging, second thoughts are raging in his head. Still, he makes it over and removes the strap from around his shoulder. Gingerly, as though he were handling a newborn kitten, he places the blanket-covered guitar on the counter with a deep sigh.

“Without a case, we won’t be able to pay you as much for it,” Blue Hair—Angie, according to her nametag—says, and she seems genuinely remorseful about that—she can probably tell from the state of his inadequate winter clothing that Patrick isn’t exactly well-off financially.

“Yeah, well, I’ll take whatever you can give me at this point,” he says. “I really need the money.” With shaking hands, he reaches over and unties the knot of fabric that holds the whole makeshift “case” together. He and the girl unwrap it together, though his fingers linger longer than hers on the unpolished wood once it’s revealed.

“Wow,” Angie appraises with a low whistle, her eyes skimming the instrument with practiced ease. _Is that a good thing? That’s good, right?_ Patrick thinks frantically. She glances up at him for a moment. “Gretsch Corvette CVT, nineteen-sixty…?”

“Sixty-five,” he supplies. “Solid body, mahogany and rosewood, cherry finish, twenty-one frets. I’ve had it for years and I love it to death, but it’s…it’s time to let it go, I guess.” _I have more important things to cling to now._

Angie just nods. “It’s Christmas, money’s tight, I get it.” She wraps one hand around the guitar’s neck and lifts it off the counter, testing its weight in her grasp. Patrick feels a pang of possessiveness as she holds it up in front of herself and strums a few chords, testing the strings. Another nod. “Feels good, sounds good. Surprisingly little damage despite the lack of a proper case. We could have our guy sand the back a little, maybe re-stain it to get rid of those little scratches…”

Patrick’s standing in front of her on the other side of the partition, practically dying of nerves. He wrings his hands nervously out of her line of sight and asks as calmly as he can manage, “What’s the most you’d give me for it?”

The girl tests the sparse dials and switches on the body, seemingly satisfied after a few seconds of fiddling. Finally, she sets the guitar back on the counter and stares at it, crossing her arms and biting her lower lip in thought. “It’s heavily used,” she says contemplatively, “but it’s in an almost miraculous good shape. You care for this beauty, don’t you?”

Patrick hums in agreement and avoids her gaze to fix his own on the guitar. “Yeah, of course, but…I’ve got another beauty at home that I care about a lot more.” He smiles sadly, and finally their eyes meet. “If selling this makes him happy for even a minute, I’ll do it.”

Angie is apparently somewhat speechless. “Um…wow,” she finally says after about ten full seconds of awed silence. “If my ex-girlfriend had been willing to do that for me, she wouldn’t be my ex.”

Patrick chuckles and feels himself blushing. “I love him,” he admits shyly, “and the money from this will go towards a present he’s wanted forever.”

“Expensive present?” the girl asks knowingly.

Patrick nods sheepishly. “Sorta. But I’d take a bullet for him—giving this up is nothing.” As he says those words, he finds himself believing them.

After another several seconds of incredulous, almost proud staring, Angie says, “Well whoever he is, he’s fuckin’ lucky to have a guy like you who cares about him so much.” She folds the edges of the flannel blanket back over the guitar, then asks, “How much do you want?”

Patrick’s eyes widen. He nearly falls over. “What?”

“How much do you want for this guitar? Name your price,” Angie repeats. “’Tis the season, man, and I’d feel awful if the ‘official appraisal offer’ isn’t enough to get that special present.”

“I…” Patrick has no idea what to say. The kindness of strangers is a rare thing, but occasionally he finds it in unexpected places. This is one of those places, and this kindness is more than he ever could have anticipated. Huffing out a disbelieving laugh, he finally says, “Um…f-four hundred?”

“Done.” Angie holds out her hand for Patrick to shake, he shakes it, and the next thing he knows, he’s walking out of Jammer’s with two hundreds, two fifties, and five twenties tucked safely in the inside pocket of his jacket. The missing weight of his guitar over his shoulder is both physical and emotional, but he’ll get over it eventually—after all, he finally has enough money to afford a nice, high-quality gift for the most important person in his life. He couldn’t be happier.

Patrick nearly skips up the steps as he boards the Brown Line again, this time headed home—and to the record shop with Pete’s turntable in stock. Despite the loss he’s just experienced, the young singer can’t stop smiling. He refuses to.

So long as some punk teen doesn’t come up and try to rob him again, that is.

* * *

It’s cheap wrapping paper, but it covers the turntable’s box, so Patrick’s satisfied. He carefully applies the last of the tape to the final fold along the edge of the gift, then sits back on his heels and sighs in delight at his masterpiece. _Pete’s gonna be so fucking happy,_ is all he can think. Good thing he’s working late tonight, and they open presents in the morning—Pete won’t notice the absence of Patrick’s guitar right away. He’ll figure it out eventually, of course, but once he finds out _why_ Patrick did what he did, he’ll be okay with it.

Patrick hopes this will be the case, at least.

Uncapping a Sharpie from his back pocket, he leans over the candy-cane-patterned box and writes in the upper left-hand corner, _To Pete, from me._ He signs it with a heart instead of writing out the sappy “I love you” sentiment—he and Pete aren’t really emotional guys when they’re not in bed.

Satisfied with his work, Patrick takes the box to their bedroom and hides it in the very back corner of his closet. He stacks a few of his puffy winter sweaters on top of it to conceal it a little better, then shoves it as far back as it will go before shutting the door again. Pete hardly ever goes in his closet, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.

He knows he’s grinning like an idiot, but he can’t help it. He’s got the best gift _ever,_ and Pete is gonna cry, and everything is gonna be so _awesome_ tomorrow. He doesn’t care if he doesn’t get a gift himself—he’s not expecting one anyway. All he wants is to spend Christmas with a happy Pete, and from the looks of things, that wish is gonna be answered perfectly.

The rest of Patrick’s Christmas Eve is lonely and relatively uneventful: watching movies, belting show tunes to an empty apartment, fantasizing about the look on Pete’s face when he hears the first note of his Metallica record played out of that gorgeous turntable. He’s in bed by eleven, which is a first for him, and asleep by midnight with a contented smile on his lips.

It’s around one thirty when Patrick half-awakens to the sound and feel of Pete slipping into bed beside him. The older man clings to him like a life preserver, spooning up against his back and burying his face in soft strawberry-blonde hair. Patrick doesn’t know what’s up, but it’s something, so he pretends to shift in his sleep and pulls Pete tighter against himself.

* * *

Christmas morning arrives quietly, announcing itself with surprisingly bright sunshine beaming through Pete and Patrick’s bedroom window. Patrick blinks awake with a quiet groan and shifts backwards subconsciously to seek out the older man’s solid presence, snuffling unhappily when he can’t find it. He rolls over and his eyes snap all the way open when he realizes he’s alone in the bed, and Pete’s pillow isn’t even warm.

 _Insomnia attack, maybe?_ Patrick thinks, sitting up and grabbing his glasses from his nightstand. Those are common for Pete around holidays—the stress gets to him and won’t let him relax. The wall clock near the doorway says it’s just past nine, which is much earlier than Pete usually gets up on his days off.

Just then, Patrick hears a cabinet door close in the kitchen. Almost immediately after, the musky smell of—of— _bacon_ reaches his nose, and he scrambles out of bed to investigate.

What he finds is a shirtless Pete in sweatpants standing in front of their stove, cooking something in their only skillet. He’s whistling “Winter Wonderland” softly to himself and making awkward little motions with his hips in an apparent attempt at dancing. Patrick laughs fondly at the image, which makes Pete turn around, greasy spatula in hand. A bright, Christmas-y smile breaks over his face like a sunrise and he practically skips over to Patrick, greeting him with a hug and a firm kiss on the mouth. “Merry Christmas, Pattycakes!” he says gleefully and motions to the stove. “Look, I got bacon!”

“I see that,” Patrick replies, a little confused. He’s thrilled to see Pete this animated and stress-free, but he’d like to have an idea as to why. He hadn’t seemed very cheerful when he’d climbed into bed last night. “Not to put a damper on your uber-festive mood or anything, but, uh, why the uber-festive mood?”

“I got paid last night,” Pete says, and there’s a quick flicker of something in his eyes, “so I thought I’d go get some real breakfast food! We’ve been living off shitty generic cereal and oatmeal for the last three-hundred-sixty-four days, but Christmas should be special, right? Look, look—bacon and eggs and sausage and _pancake mix!_ It’s like a restaurant!”

Patrick can’t help but laugh again at Pete’s childlike enthusiasm. “It looks amazing,” he says, wrapping one arm around Pete’s waist and drawing him in for another kiss. “Thank you.”

Pete smiles, then leans in towards Patrick’s ear to whisper lowly, “I also picked up some mistletoe. It’s sorta hidden, so stay alert.” With that, he prances back over to the skillet and nudges the bacon around with the spatula. “This is almost finished, my love, so could you be a dear and rustle up some plates?”

Patrick gets the plates, then helps Pete with the pancake mix and sausages. Eventually they’re seated at their tiny dining table, shoulders brushing, indulging in the most delicious breakfast Patrick can remember eating in ages. Pete makes a cheeky remark about wanting a different kind of “sausage” in his mouth, which makes Patrick blush and kick him under the table, saying through a mouthful of egg, “Save the smut for tonight, asshole. It’s fuckin’ Christmas morning. Be reverent. Or something.”

In the back of his mind, Patrick can’t wait to see how much more excited Pete will be when he opens his gift. If this is how he reacts to a hot breakfast, he’ll be ecstatic when he listens to his vinyl for the first time.

After their breakfast, the two of them get dressed, and Pete asks with a hopeful smile, “Hey, ‘Trick—why don’t you hook up your guitar and play some Christmas tunes? I’ll sing along and try to get all the words right this time.”

Patrick’s heart pounds in his throat. “Uh…” He can’t tell Pete about the guitar right now, he just can’t. It would ruin the mood he’s in. Swallowing thickly, Patrick finally says, “A-Actually, Pete, we can do that later. Why don’t you go sit in the living room for a sec? I, um…I have something for you.”

Pete’s eyes look puzzled for a moment, then they light up with awe. “You got me a present?” he says quietly, gazing at Patrick as though he’s just proved Santa’s existence.

“You bet I did,” Patrick replies, grinning. The nervousness is fading now, replaced by a pleasant, twitchy excitement. “Go sit on the couch. I’ll bring it out to you.”

The older man nods silently, thanks Patrick with a quick peck on the lips, and heads to the living room.

Patrick can hardly keep his hands from shaking as he digs the wrapped box out of the back of his closet. _This is it._ No need to tell Pete how he was able to afford it just yet—that’s a story for tomorrow, when the guitar’s absence will no doubt be more obvious. Today he can play it off, saying he busted a string and brought it to a friend’s place to have it repaired. Picking up the box and taking a deep breath, Patrick makes his way to the living room.

Pete is seated on the couch, hands fidgeting in his lap, looking equal parts excited and shocked. When he sees the size of the gift in Patrick’s arms, he stops tapping his foot and his jaw drops. “What _is_ that?” he asks.

“Why don’t you unwrap it and find out?” Patrick sits next to him and holds out the box. “Merry Christmas.”

Pete nearly drops it when he takes it. “It’s fuckin’ heavy!” the older man exclaims with a startled laugh before he carefully begins unwrapping. He doesn’t rip into the paper like he usually does—instead, he runs his fingers under the seams and pops the tape with precise fingers, seemingly terrified of rushing this process. It’s clear he already views this gift as precious, even before he’s seen what it is.

When he finally removes the red-and-white paper in its entirety and sees what it was concealing, Pete’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull. Running his fingers over the picture of the record player on the front of the box, he shakes his head in disbelief. “ _Patrick_ …” he whispers incredulously.

“It’s so you can play your Metallica album,” Patrick explains with a hopeful smile. Pete doesn’t seem too thrilled at the moment—more stunned speechless than anything. “I-I know you thought it was a waste of money before, but I know you’ve always wanted one, and now you have one! It’s the nicest one I could find, too—diamond needle and everything.”

Pete nods mutely, still staring transfixed at the gift in his lap. After several long seconds, he asks quietly, “How much did this cost?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Patrick says, “and neither does how I got the money, not right now, anyway. I just wanna see the look on your face when you hear your record for the first time! C’mon, you plug it in, I’ll get the record—”

He gets up off the couch but is stopped by Pete’s hand on his arm. “’Trick, wait.” The older man looks up at him, a tearful smile on his face and nothing but pure adoration in his watery gaze.

“What?” Patrick sits back down beside him. “Don’t you like it?”

Pete’s smile broadens and he chokes out a laugh-sob; a single tear trails its way down his face as he nods emphatically. “Patrick, _Patrick,_ yes, of course I like it, I love it, _thank_ you,” he babbles, then leans over to envelop his best friend in a tight hug. Patrick hugs back, confused and mildly worried as Pete buries his nose in the juncture of Patrick’s neck and shoulder and cries for a minute or two.

“This wasn’t the reaction I expected,” Patrick murmurs as he draws soothing patterns on Pete’s back with his fingertips. Sure, happy tears would’ve been welcome, but these seem too much like upset ones.

“S-Sorry.” Pete sniffs wetly and leans back, hastily swiping his hands over his eyes and cheeks. He shakes his head and looks at Patrick, something like remorse in his eyes. “I do love it, ‘Trick, I really fucking do, I just wish I had something to play on it.”

Patrick tilts his head to the side quizzically. “You’ve got _Master of Puppets_. That’s, like, the whole reason I bought this thing.”

“I know, but…I sold it yesterday,” Pete says.

“You…you w _hat?”_ Impossible. Pete wouldn’t give up that record for anything.

“I had the money from my Angels and Kings Christmas bonus—which I did get, by the way,” Pete explains, “but when I got home two days ago, Weiss ran into me in the hall and demanded that I pay the rent for the past three months right there. He took all the cash I had on me.”

Patrick nods in understanding—their landlord, Barry Weiss, has been pretty demanding of them since they started missing their payments. _No wonder he hasn’t harassed us in a couple days._

“So I took the album to a record shop on Madison, and they paid me six hundred bucks for it; said they were gonna put it behind glass,” Pete continues. “ _Six hundred,_ babe, can you believe it? I used some of it to completely stock our pantry until February, at least, and even paid next month’s rent. ‘S why I got home so late. Surprised I didn’t wake you up with all the bags rustling.”

Patrick just shakes his head in realization. “The breakfast this morning,” he says.

Pete nods. “And you can have the same thing every morning for the next few weeks, if you want. Sort of a…recurring gift, if you will.”

A laugh startles out of Patrick and he looks at Pete, not sure what to say. “I’m…stunned,” he finally chokes out. Then, after a moment, something occurs to him. “Wait…what’d you use the rest of it for?”

“This.” Pete grins almost manically and sets the record player carefully on their coffee table before slipping off the couch to the floor. He gets down on his knees and reaches under the couch, and what he pulls out knocks the breath out of Patrick’s lungs:

It’s a silver, hard-shell, leather-accented, brand-name Gretsch guitar case.

Pete laughs at Patrick’s shell-shocked expression and lifts it up onto the younger man’s lap, sitting back on his heels to grin up at him. “Isn’t it gorgeous?” he gushes. “Look, take off the big red bow.”

With a shaking hand, Patrick removes the bow and his eyes fill up when he sees what’s under it: his name, _Patrick M. Stump,_ embossed into the metal in gold script. It’s the most amazing gift Patrick has ever gotten. “Oh, God,” he whispers, and he can’t help it when a few tears leak onto his cheeks. He undoes the clasps and opens it, staring in awe at the green velvet lining before running his hands lightly over it.

“I can’t believe this,” he chokes out on a heavy breath.

“Well, believe it,” Pete says as he cranes up to press a kiss to Patrick’s cheek.

Patrick looks down at him, laughing through his tears. “No, I mean I can’t believe we’ve both been this stupid!”

“Huh?”

“My cash envelope got stolen a couple days ago, so I sold my guitar to pay for that turntable,” Patrick admits.

At this, Pete’s smile completely disappears. He narrows his eyes, studying Patrick’s face closely, searching for signs that he’s lying. When he apparently finds none, he swallows and turns back to look at the record player again. “You…” He points at it, glancing back at Patrick. “You gave up your fucking Gretsch…for that? For _me?”_ He sounds utterly amazed, as though he doesn’t believe it at all.

Patrick nods, a tearful smile splitting his face. “You gave up your record for me,” he points out. “We’re even.”

“What? No.” Pete shakes his head vigorously and his hands come up to tangle themselves in his thick hair. His knees come up to his chest as it begins to heave. “No, nonono, that…that record was important, yeah, but, your guitar, oh, _Patrick,_ that’s like giving up your _voice!_ ”

He’s nearly hyperventilating now, working himself into a panic. Patrick immediately closes the case, sets it aside on the couch, and gets on his knees in front of Pete, grabbing his shoulders. “Pete? Hey, hey, look at me, breathe for a sec, okay? Pete?”

But Pete keeps going as though Patrick isn’t speaking, hysteria taking over. “That thing was the most precious object in your life, the most valuable, the most beautiful…I…” He shakes his head, gazing at Patrick through tear-filled whiskey eyes. “You shouldn’t have done that. I-I’m not worth that. Oh God, I can’t believe…” His voice trails off into a choked noise.

 _Of course that’s what this is about._ Patrick’s had to deal with Pete’s troubled thoughts and crippling self-esteem issues for years; this is familiar territory for him. It never gets any less painful, though, having to see someone he loves so dearly think so little of himself. Then again, he puts Pete through the same thing with his own issues quite often. They’re a couple of fucked-up people, but they have each other.

Pursing his lips into a thin line, Patrick looks Pete straight in the eyes and shakes his head firmly. “You’re wrong,” he says.

“No ‘m not,” Pete mumbles, folding in on himself.

“Yes, you, are,” Patrick insists. “That hunk of wood wasn’t the most important thing in my life, and it wasn’t the most precious, valuable, or beautiful. I loved it, yes, but you know what I love more?” One of his hands shifts from Pete’s shoulder to the side of Pete’s face, cradling it gently. When the older man doesn’t answer, Patrick does: “You.”

“But… _why?_ ” The broken look of desperation and confusion on Pete’s face nearly cracks Patrick’s heart in two. “I’m not exactly a catch.”

Patrick snorts. They have to have had this conversation twenty times in the past five years, but it varies every time. Still, the same central question is always present: _Why me?_

“Are you kidding?” Patrick says. “Have you _seen_ you? I’m blown away that a guy like you would even _glance_ at someone like me, let alone endure a five-year relationship with me.”  He sits up a little straighter and pulls Pete’s head down gently until their foreheads are touching. “You’ve got the best heart and the best ass of anyone I’ve ever met, Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third, and yeah, it’s true—you’re not worth my Gretsch. You’re worth so fucking much more. I love you so much I’m sick with it, because you fill every day of my grayscale life with color, and because I couldn’t fucking survive without you. Maybe that’s unhealthy codependency, but it’s worked for us so far.” He nudges Pete’s nose with his own. “Don’t you get it, Wentz? You think you’re worth nothing, when in reality, nothing is worth you. You’re the one thing I could never give up.”

There’s a long, heavy silence after this, during which Pete stares into Patrick’s eyes like the answer to every question he’s ever asked or will ask can be found in their blue-green depths. One of his hands slowly leaves his hair to latch onto the back of Patrick’s neck and he closes his eyes with a deep sigh. When he opens them again, they’re brimming with love instead of tears. “Are you my Christmas angel?” he whispers, voice nearly hoarse.

“Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing,” Patrick replies with a soft smile.

Pete laughs his eye-crinkle laugh and wraps his arms around Patrick’s neck. “Pretend that mistletoe I mentioned earlier is here, alright?”

“I don’t need mistletoe,” Patrick replies and presses their mouths together, brushing away dried tear tracks with his thumbs.

Between kisses and nibbles and huffs of breath, Pete manages to say, “Guess I’ll have to get a few cheap records from somewhere so I can use that beautiful machine.”

Patrick smiles against his lips. “And I’ll save up for another guitar. One that’ll fit perfectly in that case.”

“Sounds good.”

There, kneeling together on dirty carpet in their small living room, they lose themselves in each other, and suddenly it’s the best Christmas ever. They’re both sacrificial idiots who love each other almost as much as they hate themselves, but something about it just works.

Outside their window, an El train rumbles past, spraying up freshly-fallen snow from the tracks. It’s Christmas in Chicago, and while the rest of the city may think they’ve got the true spirit of the holiday down-pat, these two men have them all beat. Nothing says “Christmas” like willingly giving more than you get, and they are a prime example of that. They always have been.

Snow is falling, and in the warmth of their tiny apartment, Pete and Patrick are, too, all over again.

###


End file.
